Overview

Love is beautiful on paper; beyond that, it's paper cuts. Those tiny incisions surgically slice away the humanity, we hold so dear. After time, those tiny incisions become a full dissection. The self-respect of our entrails is an ocean at our feet, fed by the waterfall spewing from a butchered Y-section, Cupid swore would never happen. It's a long, long death. It gets to the point where you want to desperately pull your flesh further apart, to accelerate the flood, because drowning yourself no matter how horrific it will be, is better than one more paper cut from another broken promise. You're probably wondering why love at all then. The answer - we hate ourselves more than we're willing to admit. It's a fine line between lovesick and sick of love. It's not our fault. We're masochists. We'll always seek the things that will destroy us, and there's nothing more powerful than yearning to hear those three little words, and we'll reciprocate, because we don't know any better.

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